


Your Fatal Flaw

by Alipeeps



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22286353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alipeeps/pseuds/Alipeeps
Summary: "He swings the hammer loosely a couple of times, getting a feel for the weight, getting his aim in. Okay. He can do this. He can. Fuck. Fuck. "Inspired by the promo pics for episode 1x11, my (increasingly AU) imagining of what might happen when the team finds Malcolm.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 163





	Your Fatal Flaw

_"Your family is your fatal flaw."_

Malcolm’s heart is hammering in his chest and he genuinely can’t tell anymore how much is down to withdrawal from his meds and how much is sheer mind-numbing terror at the thought of John going after Jessica and Ainsley. He… has to warn them, he has to… he has to get out of here.

John has left the hammer within reach. He’d taunted Malcolm with it, told him it was the only way he was getting out of here, sneered that he would never have the guts to do it. He’d never be worthy of his father’s legacy. He was _weak_.

He isn’t weak. But he is terrified. And desperate. And determined.

He hefts the hammer experimentally, his palms sweaty on the handle, acutely conscious of its solid weight. He can do this. He can. He has to. Swallowing thickly, he splays his left hand out on the floor, fingers spread apart, thumb extended. His breath rattles in his chest. He can do this.

He just needs to… if he can break the thumb joint, he’ll be able to slide his hand free of the handcuff. Just one sharp blow would do it. Just…

He takes a deep breath, his stomach churning. Fuck. This was going to hurt like hell.

He swings the hammer loosely a couple of times, getting a feel for the weight, getting his aim in. Okay. He can do this. He can. Fuck. _Fuck_. 

He grimaces, his breath coming short and fast. Do it. Do it now before you change your mind. _Do it_. He lifts the hammer over his head, his arms trembling, letting out a scream that is equal parts fear and defiance, and swings it down with all his might…

…just as the door bursts open with a crash, bodies spilling into the room, guns and flashlights sweeping from side to side.

He startles, and _flinches_ , his hand jerking out from under the hammer. The heavy blow he’d aimed at his thumb joint hits the solid floor instead, and the impact sends a jolt of pain shooting up his arm, making him cry out, the hammer ripping from his grasp as his knuckles scrape on the floor and his entire hand throbs numbly.

“Malcolm!”

A familiar voice calls his name and Gil is there, dropping to his knees in front of him, his eyes wide and anxious. Malcolm tries not to flinch as Gil reaches out to clutch his shoulders. 

“Malcolm, are you okay?” Gil is looking him over worriedly and Malcolm’s brain is short-circuiting, struggling to catch up. Gil’s voice sounds distant, muffled. Malcom. Not Bright. Malcolm. Gil almost never calls him Malcolm.

“Malcolm?”

Time speeds up and Malcolm is thrust back into the here and now, letting out a gasp of air that is one part relief, two parts hope.

“Gil!” he rasps. His voice comes out hoarse and cracked. He is listing to the side, the rush of adrenalin fading rapidly, leaving him weak and shivering. He struggles to right himself but his right arm is hanging limply, still throbbing from the impact with the floor.

Gil steadies him, his hands firm and warm on his shoulders. “It’s okay, Malcolm. I got you. I got you.”

Malcolm shakes his head. His heart is still racing, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Gil,” he croaks. “John, he’s… he’s going after Jessica… Ainsley…” He sees the shock register on Gil’s face. “You’ve got to… you got to send someone… please…” 

“ _Shit_.” Gil pulls out his radio but before he can do anything Collette appears behind him. She looks Malcolm over perfunctorily, the familiar twist of contempt in her eyes.

“Basement’s clear,” she tells Gil. “There’s no sign of Watkins.” 

She eyes Malcolm distrustfully. “Where did he go?” she demands.

Gil stands up quickly, even as Malcolm feels panic building in his chest, a tight knot that makes it harder and harder to breathe. Collette doesn’t care about Jessica and Ainsley. She definitely doesn’t care about Malcolm. Her only focus is finding Watkins. She’ll…

“Watkins is targeting Bright’s mother and sister,” Gil is saying urgently. “We need to take them into protective custody immediately.”

Malcolm sees Collette process that information, sees the way she looks briefly his way before nodding. She walks away as she speaks into her radio. “Control, this is Agent Swanson, I need…”

He tries to get his breathing under control, to swallow down the lump in his throat. His hands are shaking, enough to make the chain rattle. He forces himself to take a slow, deep breath, clenches his fists hard. He knows exactly what Collette is thinking. If Jessica and Ainsley are put in protective custody, Watkins will know the FBI are closing in. He’ll vanish and the she'll lose her opportunity. She’s not going to take them into custody. She’s going to use them as bait. She’ll send agents to watch them, in the hope of catching Watkins when he comes after them. He shivers. It’s won’t be enough. Not enough. John is clever. He is wily. Malcolm needs to _be there_. He needs to stop him. 

Gil is on the radio, issuing his own orders. Malcolm tries to reach up and get his attention but the chain rattles through the ring, dragging his right hand down to the floor as he lifts his left. It pulls him off balance and he can’t get his right arm back under him quickly enough; he topples to the side, hitting the ground heavily.

“Malcolm!”

“Bright!”

Gil’s cry of concern merges with another voice and then there are hands on him, making him flinch. His head is spinning dizzily and he’s really not sure if he just banged it on the floor or not. 

A hand brushes the hair back from his forehead and he blinks up at Dani’s concerned face.

“Hey, c’mon… I got you…” Gil’s touch is cautious as he gently manoeuvres Malcolm into a sitting position. Malcom’s stomach roils and his head is starting to throb painfully. He swallows thickly, his mouth dry, and squints at Gil. 

“Gil,” his voice cracks and breaks, his throat raw and gritty. “Please… you’ve…”

“I’ve got a car outside Jessica’s house,” Gil reassures, “they’ll make sure they’re safe until the FBI gets there.”

Malcolm shakes his head, and winces as the movement make his headache spike. “They won’t… I need to be there, Gil….”

Gil makes _that_ face and Malcolm’s fear and desperation flares into a hot burst of anger. He wrenches at the chain, pulling it taught with a rattle, uncaring of the sting of pain in his wrists, and shouts, “I need to go!!”

His fury dies as quickly as it rose, leaving him drained and trembling, and he sags, his hands dropping into his lap. He’s uncomfortably aware of Dani’s eyes on him, watching him worriedly. Gil pats him on the shoulder.

“Can we get some bolt cutters over here?” he calls out to one of the uniformed officers. “And a medic?”

Malcolm sighs. “I’m fine,” he protests.

Dani snorts. “You are anything but fine!”

He’s about to argue but his body chooses that exact moment to betray him, a wave of dizziness washing over him, making his head swim horribly. He scrunches his eyes shut, feels himself tipping sideways, hears Dani’s surprised “Whoah!”, and two sets of hands catch him and steady him. He keeps his eyes shut, trying to breathe through the nauseous churning in his stomach. He’s uncomfortably aware of the rapid pounding of his heart.

“How…” He swallows. “How long has it been…?”

The basement room has no windows. John has come and gone at irregular intervals and the hours have bled into one another. He knows it’s been a few days at least but his perception of the passage of time has become hazy.

There’s an awkward pause and Malcolm opens his eyes warily. “You’ve been missing for a week,” Gil admits unhappily.

A week? Shit. He’s been off his meds for a week. That puts a whole new spin on how crappy he’s feeling. A lot of the meds Malcolm is on are the kind that come with a whole heap of unpleasant side effects if you stop taking them suddenly. From the expression on Gil’s face, he’s thinking the same thing and Malcolm knows with depressing certainty he’s not going to be able to sweet talk Gil into letting him anywhere near the trap Collette’s laying for Watkins.

The thought of John getting anywhere near his mother, his sister, sends his adrenaline spiking. There’s a roaring sound in his ears and he’s hyper-aware of his heartbeat, thudding frantically in his chest. There’s not enough air in the room and he can’t seem to catch his breath. His hands are clenching tightly enough to hurt.

“Bright? Bright!” Dani’s voice seems tinny and distant.

“He’s hyperventilating. Malcolm! Breathe Malcolm!”

John’s going to kill his family and he’s helpless to stop it. He’s weak, just like John said. He can’t feel his hands anymore.

“Can we get these goddamn chains off of him?” Gil is shouting, his voice tight and angry. “And where the _hell_ is that medic?!”

He opens his eyes to find himself looking at the ceiling. He blinks. He doesn’t remember lying down. Someone looms over him and he flinches, jerking his arms up protectively. It takes a moment before it sinks in that he can moves his arms… they’re not chained to the floor anymore. He flexes his wrists; they ache.

“You back with us?” He rolls his head to the side to see Dani watching him cautiously. Kneeling beside her is a stranger in an FBI jacket, he’s poking at Malcolm’s shoulder and Malcolm sucks in a breath at the sting of pain.

He lifts his head to see what he’s doing. Oh. His shirt sleeve has been sliced open and the paramedic is cleaning the knife wound on his shoulder. It looks messy and deep, already red and swollen. Malcolm lets his head drop back down with a sigh. He feels oddly weak and shaky, a bone deep ache making his limbs feel heavy.

“He good to go?” Gil stands over him, addressing his question to the medic.

“Just a sec…” He’s taping a dressing over the wound, talking as he works. “This is going to need stitches, and antibiotics.” He gestures with his chin. “He’s dehydrated and, from what you’ve told me, having symptoms of SSRI withdrawal. He should really go to the hospital.”

Malcolm tenses up at that, struggles to sit up. “Hey, hey… easy, Bright…” Dani’s lays a calming hand on his chest. He can feel himself trembling and from the frown on her face he knows she feels it too.

“Gil, please…” he croaks.

Gil shakes his head firmly, knowing exactly what Malcolm is asking. “I can’t let you anywhere near Watkins,” he states. “You’re in no fit state, kid.”

He feels the panic rising again, a hot, tight lump in his chest that he struggles to breathe around. “She’s going to… use them as bait…” he wheezes.

Gil doesn’t disagree. Instead he leans down and takes Malcolm’s arm. “Let’s get you out of here,” he offers.

Dani takes his other arm – carefully, avoiding the wad of tape and gauze – and between the two of them they lift him to his feet. His every muscle aches… it’s been a week since he’s been able to stand upright and it feels foreign and dizziness-inducing. Or maybe that was the withdrawal…

His head is swimming and his balance is off, if it weren’t for Gil and Dani he’d be on his ass on the floor. With the two of them supporting most of his weight, he takes a tentative step and his legs give way under him. He hears Dani’s whispered “Fuck” as she readjusts her stance, settles his arm more firmly across her shoulders.

“Easy,” Gil says and step by step, bit by bit, they make their way out of the cellar.

It’s cold outside, pine trees swaying in the wind. There’s an ambulance parked up waiting and Gil steers them towards it. Malcolm tries to protest but Gil’s having none of it.

He sits Malcolm down in the open doorway of the ambulance and puts his hands on his hips. “Malcolm…”

“I know John better than anyone,” Malcolm interrupts desperately. “I know how he thinks… how he…”

“Malcolm,” Gil’s tone is gentle. “You can’t walk. You gotta let us handle this.”

Malcolm’s hands are shaking. Logically, he knows Gil is right. But he can’t just sit back and… if John gets to Jessica… or Ainsley…”

“Breathe, Bright,” Dani reminds him.

“G-Gil…” he takes a shuddering breath. “Please… look after my mom? And Ainsley?”

He doesn’t trust Collette. But he trusts Gil. 

Gil looks him over, clearly conflicted. “I’ll look after him,” Dani offers.

Gil frowns, then nods. “Hospital,” his tone brooks no argument. “The sooner you get stitched up and back on your feet, the better. Okay?”

“I’ll make sure he does.” Dani states firmly.

Gil shoots her a grateful look. “Stay with him,” he cautions.

He pats Malcolm on the shoulder. “I won’t let anything happen to them,” he promises.

Malcolm watches him go, his hands clenched to stop them trembling, his breath coming shallow and fast, despite Dani’s reassuring hand on his shoulder. All he can do now is hope.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this based mostly off of the promo pic with the hammer, pretty much thinking, "Nah, they're not gonna go through with him smashing his own hand with a hammer.." and imagining how events might happen so that he ends up *not* doing so... and literally the day I started writing it, new promo pics were released for episode 1x12, showing Malcolm with a cast/support glove of some kind on his hand, instantly making the entire concept of this fic AU. Huzzah!
> 
> But what the heck, it was fun to write anyway. And there's always room for more Malcolm whump, right?


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